My Crowning Glory

I always thought that blondes have more fun because they didn’t know when they did something stupid. Ignorance is, after all, bliss. I do plenty of stupid things but most of the time realise it before you can say “how did you fall over on a flat surface?” This week alone I have set fire to a tea towel, coughed coffee on a friend’s designer silk top, got stuck in a turnstile (again!) and broke a hand-made family heirloom. I am as accident prone as Anne of Green Gables and yes, just as redheaded.
I wonder if it’s the carrot top that makes me feel a little Bridget Jones. I’m not sure I can prove it. But one thing I know: a recent study has shown that female blondes are not dumber but are actually more confident and aggressive than brunnettes. The University of California study (where else would it be done?!) revealed that blondes are more used to getting attention and their own way and are thus are more likely to get angry to reach their goals. Even women in the study with dyed blonde locks apparently developed the same characteristics whilst the brunettes typically worked harder and expected less special treatment. The study said NOTHING about red heads which just shows how much us spitfires are ignored.

Common belief says that scarlet women have fiery tempers but I think we are perfectly composed creatures. Just don’t call us ginger or take away our sun cream and no one needs to get hurt. We aren’t really a cranky race but we are a rare one. Making up only 2% of the world’s population I think it is high time people start to treat us like the precious rubies we are. I would like a redhead club membership card that gets me free fake tan, carrot cake and VIP entrance to exclusive venues. Amy Adams and Prince Harry can be our leaders and when Ronald McDonald references are outlawed we will deign to use our vampiric skin as solar panels. When that day comes, it will be redheads that have more fun, and about time too.

Valentine's Veto

Me and cupid aren’t friends. Maybe because the last time he shot me with his arrow I called him a big fat baby. Well he started it. Stupid cupid kept making me fall for good looking fools (believe me there are more expressive and less polite ways of describing them). Anyway so I lost my cool, he doesn’t talk to me anymore and as a recurring single I hate Valentine's Day.

Now that Hallmark-excuse-for-money-making day is made worse by the fact that I caved into my mean dentist and got adult braces. So now I look like Ugly Betty despite claiming I’ve invested in teeth bling, I constantly and obviously have food stuck in my teeth and no boy is ever going to look twice at me again. On the upside the appointments are so painful that I can’t eat solids for days afterwards. So thanks to regularly enforced detoxes I’m at least going to look good from the neck down. Maybe if I make fascinators my signature fashion piece no one will notice the metal party going on in my mouth. Anyway, I digress.

My point was that this Valentine's ain’t gonna be any different from previously single years so I need a plan. A plan you say? Yes, a brilliant plan to stave off any loneliness monsters trying to convince me my single life isn’t great. It is. I can go for months on end without waxing anything, buy as many shoes as I like without lying about it and I don’t have to yell at anyone for farting in my lemon-scented home. I would ignore Valentine's but I don’t want to end up like bitter Miss Haversham OR tell anyone all I really want to do is re-read Pride and Prejudice and eat chocolate. But I also refuse to sit in a restaurant watching loved up couples being sickeningly sweet to each other. Ugh, public displays of affection should be illegal. They rate on my bad taste-o-meter somewhere between high cut fluorescent leotards and liking Jordon: that’s extreme.

So what are my options - bungy jumping? Can’t, haven’t got time to go bra shopping. Sabotaging other people’s day? Too easy. Cosmopolitans? Too Sex in The City without the awesome clothing budget. That leaves just one option: I need to get away. Preferably to a country that doesn’t know or care about the shallowest, fakest holiday ever thought of. And if I get a really hot tan, maybe Cupid won’t recognise me when I get back.